


Gingerbread

by entanglednow



Category: Grimm (TV)
Genre: Dubious Consent, M/M, Sex Magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-21
Updated: 2011-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-27 16:38:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/297880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/entanglednow/pseuds/entanglednow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nick has no idea how he got on the floor. One moment he's chasing the witch and the next - he's staring at a spray of powdered sugar, and the whole world smells like gingerbread.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gingerbread

Nick has no idea how he got on the floor. One moment he's chasing the witch and the next - he's staring at a spray of powdered sugar, and the whole world smells like gingerbread.

More importantly the tiles are cold under every inch of his bare skin, and his entire body feels like someone took a rolling pin to it. Considering the fact that he's in a kitchen, it's a distinct possibility. As for what happened before that - it's like someone had hit fast-forward on the world. The whole lot of it was just a jumble of images. For a second it's too fast to follow, skipping too quickly, like the frames on a DVD. But then they slow, slide together, more like the pages of a flicker book.

Nick takes a breath, and then holds it.

His shirt is stretched out across the floor, trailing white, one sleeve pointed out towards the door, as if it was determined to continue the chase, even if he wasn't. The back of it's ripped open, a messy, jagged tear of cotton.

The powder over his head is dotted with hand prints. A jar of spoons is scattered two feet away. A foot to the right of that is a tipped over bottle of cooking oil, half full, and still spilling in slow-motion. The puddle stares at him accusingly.

This is all very bad.

Though at least now he knows why his back is so warm, why there's the slow press, and relax of skin against his own. Nick stretches an arm out, until he can brace his hand against the floor and push up. There's a rumble of warning that vibrates all the way through him, and the hand still curled loosely round his thigh tightens. Which is - not what Nick wants to be thinking about right now. But he's pretty sure having the other man conscious is his first priority. So he takes a chance, and sends his elbow back until it hits flesh.

"Monroe, wake up."

He's pretty sure it worked, because there's a moment of horrible stillness, and then there's nothing touching him but cold air. Nick honestly doesn't know if that's better. He tries to twist around and his shoulder protests, angrily. The instinctive lift and press of his fingers finds an untidy line of pain and torn skin. His fingertips come away red. Which - suddenly makes a lot of sense. Nick doesn't have anything to wipe it on, and it just slides between his fingers, warm and tacky.

"She's probably long gone by now," he says, just for something to say, and his voice is rough, throat too dry. Usually at this point Monroe would at least be accusing him of touching something, complaining about his tendency to go blundering into things, and the absence is kind of disturbing. The silence is disturbing. "And since you told me she made cookies out of children I know I didn't touch anything."

"Gingerbread," Monroe says, under his breath, half curse and half explanation. Which explains nothing but Nick figures he can ask later, when they're not...not here.

"We have to -" he pushes himself to a sit, and then decides that, _no_ , no he's not doing that quite yet, and levers himself back down. "Fuck, ok, in a minute then. Where are my jeans?"

Monroe pushes himself upright, heads for the table, and untangles dark denim from among the hanging pans. He doesn't seem bothered about being naked. Where Nick feels weird and bruised, and he'd very much like to have his clothes back.

His jeans are handed to him, and he doesn't miss the way Monroe is being very careful not to touch him. He tries to get them the right way round, and discovers half the waistband is gone - and he thinks maybe there's a memory that goes with that. A jolt like electricity, nails on his skin, and he'd been _begging for it_. Nick stares at the material for a minute, heart thumping in his chest.

When he looks up again Monroe's half dressed, and he's holding Nick's jacket. One of the sleeves is dangling, sugar swirling up the leather.

Nick reaches up, hand open, until Monroe gives in and reaches down, helps him very slowly to his feet. Standing isn't exactly pleasant, and getting into his jeans involves more swearing than he usually likes. He ends up shaking slightly, but he's halfway decent again.

"I'm not showering in this house," Nick decides, and starts awkwardly doing up his jeans with fingers that still feel numb. He's not up to complicated manoeuvring yet, and Monroe catches his elbow, before he ends up braining himself on the wall. He lets go as soon as he's stable, takes a step back.

Nick's too tired to feel much of anything, but that gets through easily enough, and there's no reason for it, none at all.

"Will you stop that. I think we both got screwed this afternoon."

Monroe winces, and Nick decides that he definitely could have phrased that better. He sighs out a breath and even that kind of hurts. He's not entirely sure how he's going to chase after criminals when he's pretty sure that even walking straight is going to be a challenge at the moment. But he's damned if he isn't going to try. Monroe looks like he really wants to say something, but can't quite get it out, or doesn't know how. But Nick feels like the tentative skirting around the issue is working ok for the moment.

"We'll probably have to talk about this, but I really don't feel like doing it now. So could we put it on some sort of 'to do' list for the future, and find this woman, before any more kids go missing?" He takes his jacket and puts it on.

The leather's cold on his skin, but he can deal with that.

"Also, the smell of gingerbread is kind of making me feel ill." He doesn't think anything of laying a hand on Monroe's arm, using it to steady himself on the way to the door, and it very gradually relaxes under his grip.


End file.
